Searching for Snake’s head Fritillaries

It’s interesting to watch reactions when you say you’re off to look for snake’s head fritillaries. It is an odd combination of words and most people seem to break it up into its two parts and simply hedge their bets, meaning they either end up with a reptile or a butterfly. However the true meaning is small and purple (sometimes) and wonderfully charming.

Little known and little seen the snake’s head fritillary is a rather stunning wildflower. In England it is restricted to only a few dozen ancient grasslands, areas managed with traditional methods, where fertilisers and pesticides have failed to reach.

A great deal of conservation sweat, blood and tears has gone into saving these spectacular places, and in particular into stopping this plant from disappearing from our countryside entirely. Yet for many the question remains as to whether we should be fighting to save this rarity at all, as it may be that the snake’s head fritillary was never actually supposed to be here.

The phrase ‘non-native species’ may be familiar to many people, and certainly is on the tip of the tongue of any person working in the conservation industry, but what can be puzzling is when we should apply it. Afterall everything is non-native to Britain if you go far enough back, when glacial ice sheets and inhospitable conditions scoured this country of any living creatures. For some species recolonisation has been a slow process and we’re certainly still missing a great deal of what we once had (and have lost of great deal of what we got back due to our own efforts to tame our countryside). Yet few would argue that anything which found its way here more than 1,000 years ago could be considered non-native. Yet even today new species still manage to reach us through their own steam, some reclaiming lost territory (such as the crane) and some just enjoying our changing climate (like the collared dove). For the most part those that make their own way here are accepted and even encouraged (who in their right mind would tell little owls to pack their bags and head back across the channel). Indeed it seems the title non-native (and the stigma carried with it) is most frequently used for those species which were assisted by human hands (or the vehicles they created).

Today many modern non-natives, those brought across to pretty up our gardens or accidentally carried in the mud on our channel hopping tyres, are causing havoc in our ecosystems, which simply haven’t evolved to deal with them. Himalayan balsam swamps and outcompetes native wildflowers, rhododendron fills our woodlands with nothing more than a tangled mess and Japanese knotweed has everyone heading for the hills. Indeed in conservation the words ‘non-native’ are often followed by ‘invasive’ and ‘control methods’ and irradication seems the only way to stop them taking over our countryside. Yet some non-natives simply settle here, find their niche and grow happily within our fields and hedgerows, a small part of a tapestry of life.

Many non-natives have been here a very long time. So long we’ve forgotten they never belonged here, such as the nettle, brought over by the romans to cure arthritis, or the rabbit, a tasty snack delivered by the Normans. Even our large and twisted sweet Chestnuts are only considered honorary natives because they’ve outlasted their foresters by many a century. It’s strange to wonder what we might see today if human hands had never accidentally, or intentionally, brought these strangers to our shores. It certainly would be a rather different scene.

So the concept of non-natives is a strange and bizarre thing. They can cause immense environmental (and economic) damage, yet nature has no borders and may wing its way here at any time (even elephants have been known to island hop). Some arrived centuries ago, others are arriving now and many will arrive in the future. Certainly for those which turn invasive (taking over and killing or outcompeting our native species) control is essential, but where does the fritillary fit in?

The debate as to whether the snake’s head fritillary is a non-native has raged for decades, however the evidence is pointing to its arrival on our shores some 400 years ago, initially as a garden plant. Brought by human hands this beautiful tiny flower has no more right to be here than the devastating Himalayan balsam. Yet as one ecologist pointed out to me as we walked through the meadow on our way to survey this year’s blooms; what does it matter if they’re non-native or not. Afterall, 400 years is a decent amount of time for us to claim it as our own. It has found its niche and settled there rather sedately. Few people would suggest we try to rid ourselves of the non-native nettle or sweet chestnut. For those non-natives which are not invasive and do simply find their own little corner within our countryside, whether transported by humans or not, perhaps we should just accept them as our own and enjoy the extra diversity they give our green spaces.

And this is how I find myself kneeling in the long lush grass of the Lugg Meadows, a metal quadrat (1 metre square frame for marking out the survey area) before me, running my fingers across blades of grass trying to pick out the somewhat fatter, waxier leaves of the snake’s head fritillary. I’ve wanted to visit a fritillary meadow ever since I first saw the chequered surface of this delicate looking flower in a magazine. A drooping tulip shaped bloom the snake’s head fritillary is largely photographed in its wonderful purple form, however a ghost-like white version can also found.

At Lugg Meadows in fact it’s this paler form that dominates, with only a few scattered purple companions. Though equally wonderful to see I must say I prefered its more colourful form, for the simple reason that the fascinatingly geometric pattern, looking more like the creation of a high-tech printer than nature, is often missing from the white fritillary.

The fritillary count had been organised by the Herefordshire Wildlife Trust, whose reserve it was, and the Floodplain Meadows Partnership, who are keen to engage people in the importance of these wonderful habitats. Lugg Meadows is an amazing complex of sites, nearly 40 hectares in size. Wandering through the tall grass between quadrate (the locations for which had been marked out with bamboo canes to ensure the same areas were surveyed each year) I saw more wildflowers than I could name. Many hadn’t yet opened their blooms, such as tubular water dropwort (a long name for a very pretty and delicate flower) and my favorite, meadowsweet. However some early flowers were already enjoying the spring sun. The pale pink petals of the cuckoo flower were everywhere, as were the aptly named golden disks of the meadow buttercups. Scattered in between were the nodding heads of the fritillaries, strangely unassuming surrounded by the visual noise of the rest of the meadow.

Our job, as volunteers, was to count and record the fritillaries in our quadrat. These counts are done every year and not only monitor the rise or decline of the population, they also reveal valuable insights into the life-cycle of this tiny plant. One recent discovery is that in bad years bulbs can lay dormant, sending out a single leaf and no flower at all.

It might not seem a hard job, laying in a meadow beneath a beautiful blue sky looking for flowers, but fritillary leaves can look amazingly grass-like. For those not yet in flower rubbing blades between my fingers was the only surefire way I found to complete the count. And yet despite this technical trickiness I can’t say it’s a tough day’s work. As we knelt there, counting leaves and measuring heights, green woodpeckers laughed at us from the bushes, skylarks called out from the ether and the occasional small white butterfly flitted across the flower heads.

By the end of the day I was more familiar with the snake’s head fritillary than I had ever intended to be all those years ago when I first decided I should see them. And though I may have been a sceptic at first about this non-native’s place in our countryside I now agree that they have found their home, both in our meadows and in our hearts. And afterall, saving the snake;s head fritillary doesn’t just alter the fate of this one little flower, it means many of our meadows can continue to bloom, with all the other flowers, birds and insects which thrive within them.

How to make Chocolate Scotch Eggs

Now I must confess this isn’t my first time making ‘Scotcholate eggs’ (as I’ve decided to nickname them). This is my second time. My first time was a month ago and unfortunately I was concentrating so hard I forgot to take any photos. So here’s attempt two.

A scotcholate egg is essentially a chocolate egg wrapped in cake or brownie, dipped in chocolate and covered in biscuit crumbs. There are lots of different variations, your central egg can be a cream egg, a caramel egg, a solid chocolate egg or even a non-egg like a lindt chocolate ball. For the cakey coating you can use chocolate cake, chocolate brownie, a Blondie or muffins. Some recipes give instructions on how to make your sponge, some recommend buying a packet mix and some suggest buying ready-made options. All these choices are fine and the last two will help save you a bit of time if you’re short on it. And finally you can choose what to roll your eggs in, digestives are good, or hobnob type biscuits or you could go for chocolate shavings. I made my chocolate sponge from scratch and used a combination on difference egg types, with oaty biscuits to cover. The recipe below is adapted from one in the Independent and can either make six big scotcholates (with normal cream egg sized eggs) or many small ones (how many depends how small your eggs are).

Ingredients

Eggs of your choice (6 big or 20ish small)

For sponge;

175g butter

175g caster sugar

120g self-raising flour

4 medium free-range eggs

60g coco powder (look for the Fairtrade or rainforest alliance logo)

1tbsp baking powder

1tbsp vanilla essence (again Fairtrade always good)

For dough;

120g butter

120g icing sugar (Fairtrade or British grown)

For coating;

200g dark chocolate (Fairtrade or rainforest alliance)

200g of biscuits

Method;

1. Preheat oven to 160 degrees c and line 8 inch tin with baking paper

2. Cream together butter and sugar before adding the rest of the sponge ingredients. Add eggs one at a time and mix till everything nice and smooth.

3. Pour mixture into tin and cook for 25min or until a skewer comes out clean. Remove from tin and leave to cool for 15min or overnight.

If you’re using pre-made cake here’s where you jump in.

4. Now for the fun bit. Get a food processor and gather up the rest of your bits.

Chop your butter and measure out your icing sugar.

Put these in the food processor and crumble in your cake.

Now press the magic button and watch it all become a nice smooth dough.

5. Get your eggs ready by removing the foil. Remember to roll all your foil into one big ball to put in the recycling (did you know 75% of aluminium foil ever made is still in circulation thanks to recycling!).

Now grab a small handful of your dough and press your egg into it.

Roll the dough and egg between the palm of your hand till the egg to completely hidden and the ball is roughly a sphere. Take extra dough if need be. Repeat with all your eggs.

6. Stick your eggs in the fridge whilst you melt your chocolate (a glass bowl sat above a pan of boiling water is generally foolproof. Remember to keep stirring.) and turn your biscuits to crumbs (food processor comes in handy again).

7. Once cooled take your eggs from the fridge. Dip each egg first in your chocolate and then in your biscuit crumbs. This is really messy and I generally find you have to sprinkle some biscuits on your egg to get good coverage.

8. Place your eggs back on your tray and refrigerate till the chocolate has set. They are now ready to be feasted on!

Super simple and super tasty these scotcholate eggs are a great twist to a British classic and a fun thing to do with kids. Just remember you won’t be clean by the end and you’ll probably be forced to eat the equivalent of an egg off your fingers.

If at the end you have any spare chocolate and biscuit it’s worth combining these ingredients and placing them between a folded piece of baking paper. Place in the fridge and later you’ll have a tasty chocolate treat (although you might not need more!). Enjoy.

 

How not to see an adder – but have fun trying

For most people reptiles are not a quintessential part of British wildlife. Fox? Yes. Badger? Yes. Hedgehog? Yes. Our reptilian friends? No. Either people think reptiles only live in warmer climates, scuttling across arid deserts or hanging like vines from rainforest canopies, or they rather hope never to encounter them and get squeamish at the very thought. This is a great shame as most of  the UK’s reptile species are completely harmless and are sadly becoming less common every year. As we’ve found with most things if we want to save them we have to love them. If we don’t love them they slide off into oblivion without anyone taking much notice. So it’s time to embrace reptiles as a part of our wildlife heritage and celebrate them as much as we do the more cuddly red squirrel or loveable otter.

In the UK we have six native reptile species (and a good number of escaped pets and zoo creatures which occasionally scare the pants off an unsuspecting walker). The most numerous are common lizards and slow worms. Common lizards are small and brown/green with a large male reaching a max of 15cm. Young lizards can be more black then brown and females are slightly striped whilst the males have a spotted pattern. Common lizards are entirely harmless, and if disturbed will scuttle off quickly into the undergrowth.

Slow-worms are rather odd little creatures looking something like a small thin snake, with no real differentiation between the head and body. They have a shiny bronzy brown skin, with some males displaying small blue dots along their sides. Shy and secretive creatures they’re largely found sheltering under logs, discarded rubbish or in people’s compost piles. Approximately 40cm long for a large specimen they are not venomous and wont even attempt to bite people. Their prey is largely slugs and snails and other small pests making them ideal garden companions. What makes slow worms particularly odd is that despite looking most like a small snake they are in fact a legless lizard. This may sound like the very definition of a snake but apparently ecologists are a bit fussier than that. What makes a slow-worm a lizard and not a snake is a long list of features including the presence of eyelids and ear holes. Additionally they have a tail (though their whole body looks to be one big long tail) which like lizards they can shed if frightened. Their predator gets a nice tasty tail to snack on, whilst they live to fight another day and just regrow their tail at their own convenience.

The third lizard of the British Isles is the sand lizard. Extremely rare today the sand lizard has lost a great deal of its historic range as its preferred habitat, sandy heathlands and sand dunes, have been lost or destroyed. Approximately 20cm in length this stocky lizard is largely brown but the males acquire a vivid lime green hue to their flanks in breeding season. The only UK lizard to lay eggs, as common lizards and slow-worms both incubate eggs internally and give birth to live young, the sand lizard buries its eggs in the sand. Captive breeding has increased the handful of sites which still support this species by a few more but the sand lizard still has a somewhat shaky future. As demur as a common lizard its unlikely to do much more than scuttle out-of-the-way if seen.

Now to the snakes. The rarest snake in the UK is the smooth snake, so named because its scales are flat and smooth unlike the ridged scales of our other native snakes. They are largely golden brown with some darker blobs up their back and a dark crown on top of their heads and lines across their eyes. They live in mature sandy heathlands and hunt small mammals, reptiles and birds. Reaching an average of 60cm in length they are not venomous and harmless. Only a handful of sites are still home to this wonderful snake, which like the sand lizard has suffered from habitat loss.

Grass snakes are one of our commoner snakes, though still a great deal rarer than they have been in the past. An olive-green reptile with darker markings on its back it is easily recognised by the creamy collar around its neck and its oval, rather than slit, pupils. Grass snakes are our largest reptile species, growing up to 150cm in length and our only egg laying snake species, all others giving birth to live young. Extremely good swimmers they often live next to lakes and ponds where they hunt for fish and amphibians as well as small mammals and birds. Not venomous and shy of people they often play dead if surprised.

And finally, the only native venomous reptile in the UK; the adder (or nadder as it was once known). A stocky snake with slit pupils, a dark zigzag pattern up its back and a v or x shape on it head it is easily recognised. Some colour variation occurs, with juveniles often a gingery hue and adult varying from green to black. These wonderful creatures have similarly declined due to loss of habitat and persecution. They live on heathland and moorland areas and eat largely small mammals and birds. Although venomous most adders only bite if disturbed or threatened, and even then their bite is rarely fatal, though somewhat painful. It is however essential to seek medical attention if you or a pet are bitten.

So there we have it, six native reptiles. I have been fortunate enough to see three; common lizards, grass snake and slow worms. I have never seen an adder, a smooth snake or a sand lizard. Now sand lizards and smooth snakes take a little planning, as so few sites still support good populations, and many of these are tucked away down south, but adder has been on my list for a long time. So this year I decided that I would make a pro-active effort to tick adder off my list.

Fenn’s and Whixall is part of a National Nature Reserve and sits on the border between Shropshire and Wales. The third largest lowland raised bog it was devastated by years of peat extraction, this amazing wildlife area destroyed for mundane purposes such as supplying peat for household gardening. Thankfully the peat extraction was stopped before nothing remained of this remarkable site and since then tireless conservation work has been put into re-wetting the bog. Today it supports one of only three breeding populations of white-faced darter dragonflies in England, the rare and wonderful raft spider, the large heath butterfly and a host of other wildlife from curlews to crowberry. And importantly for me it is an excellent spot to see adders.

Like all reptiles adder hibernate from around November to March, depending on the conditions. They are easiest to spot early and late on in the breeding season as lower temperatures mean they have to spend more time basking and are more sluggish and less likely to disappear straight off. Sensitive to vibrations adders will often slither into the grass unnoticed as walkers stomp along, so gentle steps are best. Generally they like to bask in open areas with good cover nearby, so they can make a quick escape if startled. They also like dark surfaces which heat up in the sun meaning old sheets of metal or roofing felt lying around can attract their attention.

So off I went on my hunt. I had selected a good site at the right time of year (April when the adders are still slow and basking lots), a sunny but cool day (too cold and they wont be out, too hot and they wont need to bask for long) and headed out across the site looking for open areas suitable for adders. After years of work Fenn’s and Whixall moss is a mixture of low pools and high ridges covered in fluffy yellow molinia grass and deep purple heathers. In the driest areas silver birches predominate and bracken grows underneath. Old peat extraction tracks create a network of straight crisscrossing paths, flat and open and ideal for both walkers and adders. Yet adders there were none.

As we walked the sun shone hard down upon us, somewhat harsher and hotter than the forecast. Though we’d arrived at midday, which in late spring is the ideal time to see adders, it was likely our reptiles were already heated up to the max and out hunting. But we continued searching none the less.

Around us other wildlife came out to play in the sun. Vivid lemon-yellow brimstone butterflies flitted across the path, whilst darker peacock butterflies sat taking nectar from the catkins of the pussy willow. Small dark common lizards scuttled across the paths and disappeared into the jungle of molinia, whilst orange bellied stonechats perched on the very tips of the low growing trees. Alongside the tracks male reed buntings flitted, the dark caps of their breeding plumage giving them a striking appearance, while above kestrels hovered and buzzards glided lazily by.

In the pools the fluffy white heads of the cotton grasses swayed in the breeze, whilst the globular baby-pink blooms of the bog rosemary added a splash of colour. Teal dabbled in the open water, taking noisily to flight if spooked. A peaceful and beautiful scene it was none the worse for no sign of adders. We knew they were there, just not where we could see them.

Finally, finding an abandoned sheet of metal, probably a relict of the peat harvesting period, we decided to have a peek underneath. I don’t recommend this for anyone who is not out surveying with the appropriate safety equipment, and even as someone trained in reptile surveys I did it very cautiously. Two sets of reptilian eyes gazed up at us. I don’t know who was more surprised to see whom, the slow-worms us or us the slow-worms. For a few seconds everyone frozen. I grappled with my phone for a photo but unfortunately they had already begun to slither away. We waited till they were safely departed before replacing the sheet. So in a funny kind of way I did get a first after all. This was the first time I’d seen slow-worms in the UK, my only others had been all the way over in New Zealand.

Two slow worms slithering quickly away.

So no adders for me this time but plenty of wildlife and still some reptiles. That’s the thing with nature, sometimes you go looking for one thing and you find something completely different. But there’ll always be something. Nature’s good like that. I’ll be out again searching for my adders, and who knows what I’ll find.